Kitabı oku: «The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills», sayfa 8

“Ef I’m spokesman,” he cried, “guess we don’t need no buttin’ in from Beasley Melford.” Then he turned again quickly. “Astin’ your pardon, miss,” he added apologetically.

“That’s all right,” said Joan, smiling amiably. “What are you ‘spokesman’ for?”

The boy grinned foolishly.

“Can’t rightly say, missie.” Then he jerked his head in his comrades’ direction. “Guess if you was to ast them, they’d call theirselves men.”

“I didn’t say ‘who,’ I said ‘what,’” Joan protested, with a laugh at his desperately serious manner.

“‘What?’” he murmured, smearing his dirty forehead with a horny hand in the effort of his task. Then he brightened. “Why, gener’ly speakin’,” he went on, with sudden enthusiasm, “they ain’t much better’n skippin’ sheep. Y’ see they want to but darsent. So – wal – they jest set me up to sling the hot air.”

The girl looked appealingly at the rough faces for assistance. But instead of help she only beheld an expression of general discontent turned on the unconscious back of the spokesman. And coming back to the boy she pursued the only course possible.

“I – I don’t think I quite understand,” she said.

Ike readily agreed with her.

“I’m durned sure you can’t,” he cried heartily. “They jest think it a rotten kind of a job handin’ a red-ha’r’d gal a few words an’ an a’mighty fine hunk o’ gold. That’s cos they ain’t been dragged up jest right. You can’t expect elegant feedin’ at a hog trough. Now it’s kind o’ diff’rent wi’ me. I – ”

“Oh, quit,” cried the sharp voice of the exasperated Abe Allinson. And there was no doubt but he was speaking for the rest of the audience.

Pete followed him in a tone of equal resentment.

“That ain’t no sort o’ way ad – dressin’ a leddy,” he said angrily.

“Course it ain’t,” sneered Beasley. “Ther’s sure bats roostin’ in your belfry, Ike.”

The boy jumped round on the instant. His good-nature could stand the jibes of his comrades generally, but Beasley’s sneers neither he nor any one else could endure.

“Who’s that yappin’?” the youngster cried, glowering into the speaker’s face. “That the feller Buck called an outlaw passon?” he demanded. His right hand slipped to the butt of his gun. “Say you,” he cried threateningly, “if you got anything to say I’m right here yearnin’ to listen.”

Joan saw the half-drawn weapon, and in the same instant became aware of a movement on the part of the man Beasley. She was horrified, expecting one of those fierce collisions she had heard about. But the moment passed, and, though she did not realize it, it was caused by Ike’s gun leaving its holster first.

Her woman’s fear urged her, and she raised a protesting hand.

“Please – please,” she cried, her eyes dilating with apprehension. “What have I done that you should come here to quarrel?”

Buck in the background smiled. He was mentally applauding the girl’s readiness, while he watched the others closely.

Ike turned to her again, and his anger had merged into a comical look of chagrin.

“Y’ see, missie,” he said in a fresh tone of apology, “ther’s fellers around here wi’ no sort o’ manners. They’re scairt to death makin’ a big talk to a red-ha’r’d gal, so I jest got to do it. An’ I sez it, it ain’t easy, folks like me speechin’ to folks like you – ”

“Oh, git on!” cried Pete in a tired voice.

“Your hot air’s nigh freezin’,” laughed Soapy Kid.

“Quit it,” cried Ike hotly. “Ain’t they an ignorant lot o’ hogs?” he went on, appealing to the smiling girl. “Y’ see, missie, we’re right glad you come along. We’re prospectin’ this layout fer gold an’ – ”

“An’ we ain’t had no sort o’ luck till you got around,” added Pete hastily.

“In the storm,” nodded Curly Saunders.

“All mussed-up an’ beat to hell,” cried Ike, feeling that he was being ousted from his rights.

“Yes, an’ Buck carried you to home, an’ rode in fer the doc, an’ had you fixed right,” cried Abe.

Ike looked round indignantly.

“Say, is youse fellers makin’ this big talk or me? ain’t yearnin’, if any feller’s lookin’ fer glory.”

His challenge was received with a chorus of laughter.

“You’re doin’ fine,” cried the Kid.

Ike favored the speaker with a contemptuous stare and returned to his work. He shrugged.

“They ain’t no account anyway, missie,” he assured her, “guess they’re sore. Wal, y’ see you come along in the storm, an’ what should happen but the side o’ Devil’s Hill drops out, an’ sets gold rollin’ around like – like taters fallin’ through a rotten sack. ‘Gold?’ sez we, an’ gold it is. ‘Who bro’t us sech luck?’ we asts. An’ ther’ it is right ther’, so ther’ can’t be no mistake. Jest a pore, sick gal wi’ red ha’r, all beat to hell an’ – ”

“Gee, ain’t it beautiful!” sneered Curly.

Soapy pretended to weep, and Abe thumped him heavily on the back.

“Cheer up, Kid,” he grinned. “’Tain’t as bad as it seems. Ike’ll feel better after he’s had his vittles.”

Pete sniggered.

“Ain’t he comic?” he cried. Then, seizing the opportunity, while Ike turned round to retort he hustled him aside and usurped his place.

“Say, missie, it’s jest this, you’re the Golden Woman who bro’t us our luck. Some of us ain’t got your name right, nor nuthin’. Anyway that don’t figger nuthin’. We ain’t had no luck till you come along, so you’re jest our Golden Woman, an’ we’re goin’ to hand you – ”

Joan started back as though the man had struck her. Her beautiful cheeks went a ghastly pallor.

“No – no!” she cried half-wildly.

“And why for not?” demanded Pete.

“But my name is Joan,” she cried, a terrible dread almost overpowering her. “You see ‘Golden’ isn’t my real name,” she explained, without pausing to think. “That’s only a nickname my father ga – gave me. I – I was christened ‘Joan.’”

Pete slapped his thigh heavily, and a great grin spread over his face.

“Say, don’t it beat the band?” he cried in wild delight. “Don’t it?” he repeated, appealing to the world at large. “‘Golden.’ That’s her name, an’ we only hit on it cos she’s got gold ha’r, an’ bro’t us gold. An’ all the time her pa used to call her ‘Golden.’ Can you beat it?” Then he looked into Joan’s face with admiring eyes. “Say, missie, that’s your name for jest as long as you stop around this layout. That’s her name, ain’t it, boys?” He appealed to the crowd. “Here, give it her good an’ plenty, boys. Hooray for the ‘Golden Woman’!”

Instantly the air was filled with a harsh cheering that left the girl almost weeping in her terror and misery. But the men saw nothing of the effect of their good-will. They were only too glad to be able to find such an outlet to their feelings. When the cheering ceased Pete thrust out an arm toward her. His palm was stretched open, and lying on it was the great yellow nugget that the Padre had found – the first find of the “strike.”

“That’s it, missie,” he cried, his wild eyes rolling delightedly. “Look right ther’. That’s fer you. The Padre found it, an’ it’s his to give, an’ he sent it to you. That’s the sort o’ luck you bro’t us.”

The crowd closed in with necks craning to observe the wonderful nugget of gold; to the finding of its kind their lives were devoted. Beasley was at Pete’s elbow, the greediest of them all.

“It wasn’t no scrapin’ an’ scratchin’ luck,” the enthusiastic Pete hurried on. “It was gold in hunks you bro’t us.”

Beasley’s eyes lit, and Buck, watching closely, edged in.

“It’s a present to you, missie,” Pete went on. “That’s wot we come for. Jest to hand you that nugget. Nigh sixty ounces solid gold, an’ the first found at this yer camp.”

Balanced on his hand he thrust it farther out for the girl to take, but she shrank back. Beasley saw the movement and laughed. He pointed at it and leered up into her face.

“You’re sure right,” he cried. “Don’t you touch it. Jest look at it. Say, can’t you fellers see, or are you blind? She ain’t blind. She can see. She’s seen wot’s ther’. It’s a death’s head. Gold? Gee, I tell you it’s a death’s head! Look at them eye-sockets,” he cried, pointing at the curious moulding of the nugget. “Ther’s the nose bones, an’ the jaw. Look at them teeth, too, all gold-filled, same as if a dentist had done ’em.” He laughed maliciously. “It’s a dandy present fer a lady. A keepsake!”

The men were crowding to see the markings which Beasley pointed out. They were quite plain. They were so obvious that something like horror lit the superstitious faces. Beasley, watching, saw that he had made his point, so he hurried on —

“Don’t you touch it, miss,” he cried gleefully, as though he thoroughly enjoyed delivering his warning. “It’s rotten luck if you do. That gold is Devil’s gold. It’s come from Devil’s Hill, in a Devil’s storm. It’s a death’s head, an’ there’s all the trouble in the world in it. There’s – ”

His prophecy remained uncompleted. He was suddenly caught by a powerful hand, and the next instant he found himself swung to the outskirts of the crowd with terrific force.

In a furious rage he pulled himself together just in time to see Buck, pale with anger, seize the nugget from Pete’s outstretched palm.

“You don’t need to worry with the trouble in that gold,” he said with biting coldness, raising it at arm’s length above his head.

Then before any one was aware of his intention he flung it with all his force upon the flagstone at Joan’s feet. Quickly he stooped and picked it up again, and again flung it down with all his strength. He repeated the process several times, and finally held it out toward the troubled girl.

“You ken take it now,” he said, his whole manner softening. “Guess Beasley’s ‘death’s head’ has gone – to its grave. Ther’ ain’t no sort o’ trouble can hurt any, if – you only come down on it hard enough. The trouble ain’t in that gold now, only in the back of Beasley’s head. An’ when it gets loose, wal – I allow there’s folks around here won’t see it come your way. You can sure take it now.”

Joan reached out a timid hand, while her troubled violet eyes looked into Buck’s face as though fascinated. The man moved a step nearer, and the small hand closed over the battered nugget.

“Take it,” he said encouragingly. “It’s an expression of the good feelings of the boys. An’ I don’t guess you need be scared of them.”

Joan took the gold, but there was no smile in her eyes, no thanks on her lips. She stepped back to her doorway and passed within.

“I’m tired,” she said, and her words were solely addressed to Buck. He nodded, while she closed the door. Then he turned about.

“Wal!” he said.

And his manner was a decided dismissal.

CHAPTER XIII
THE CALL OF YOUTH

The fur fort was a relic of ancient days, when the old-time traders of the North sent their legions of pelt hunters from the far limits of the northern ice-world to the sunny western slopes of the great American continent. It was at such a place as this, hemmed in amidst the foot-hills, that they established their factor and his handful of armed men; lonely sentries at the gates of the mountain world, to levy an exorbitant tax upon the harvest of furs within.

Here, within the ponderous stockade, now fallen into sore decay, behind iron-bound doors secured by mighty wooden locks, and barred with balks of timber, sheltered beneath the frowning muzzles of half a dozen futile carronades, they reveled in obscene orgies and committed their barbaric atrocities under the name of Justice and Commerce. Here they amassed wealth for the parent companies in distant lands, and ruthlessly despoiled the wild of its furry denizens.

These were the pioneers, sturdy savages little better than the red man himself, little better in their lives than the creatures upon which they preyed. But they were for the most part men, vigorous, dauntless men who not only made history, but prepared the way for those who were to come after, leaving them a heritage of unsurpassable magnificence.

Now, this old-time relic afforded a shelter for two lonely men, whose only emulation of their predecessors was in the craft that was theirs. In all else there remained nothing in common, unless it were that common asset of all pioneers, a sturdy courage. They certainly lacked nothing of this. But whereas the courage of their predecessors, judging them by all historical records, in quality belonged largely to the more brutal side of life, these men had no such inspiration. Their calling was something in the nature of a passionate craving for the exercise of wits and instincts in a hard field where the creatures of the wild meet the human upon almost equal terms.

Isolation was nothing new to these men. The remotenesses of the back world had been their life for years. They understood its every mood, and met them with nerves in perfect tune. The mountains filled their whole outlook. They desired nothing better, nothing more.

Yet it seemed strange that this should be. For the Padre had not always lived beyond the fringes of civilization. He was a man of education, a man of thought and even culture. These things must have been obvious to the most casual observer. In Buck’s case it was easier to understand. He had known no other life than this. And yet he, too, might well have been expected to look askance at a future lost to all those things which he knew to lay beyond. Was he not at the threshold of life? Were not his veins thrilling with the rich, red tide of youth? Were not all those instincts which go to make up the sum of young human life as much a part of him as of those others who haunted the banks of Yellow Creek? The whole scheme was surely unusual. The Padre’s instinct was to roam deeper and deeper into the wild, and Buck, offered his release from its wondrous thrall, had refused it.

Thus they embraced this new home. The vast and often decaying timbers, hewn out of the very forests they loved, cried out with all the old associations they bore and held them. The miniature citadel contained within the trenchant stockade, the old pelt stores, roofless and worm-eaten, the armory which still suggested the clank of half-armored men, who lived only for the joy of defying death. The factor’s house, whence, in the days gone by, the orders for battle had been issued, and the sentence of life and death had been handed out with scant regard for justice. Then there were the ruined walls of the common-room, where the fighting men had caroused and slept. The scenes of frightful orgies held in this place were easy to conjure. All these things counted in a manner which perhaps remained unacknowledged by either. But nevertheless they were as surely a part of the lure as the chase itself, with all its elemental attraction.

They had restored just as much of the old factor’s house as they needed for their simple wants. Two rooms were all they occupied, two rooms as simple and plain as their own lives. Buck had added a new roof of logs and clay plaster. He had set up two stretchers with straw-stuffed paillasses for beds. He had manufactured a powerful table, and set it upon legs cut from pine saplings. To this he had added the removal of a cook-stove and two chairs, and their own personal wardrobe from the farm, and so the place was complete. Yet not quite. There was an arm rack upon the wall of the living-room, an arm rack that had at one time doubtless supported the old flintlocks of the early fur hunters. This he had restored, and laden it with their own armory and the spare traps of their craft; while their only luxury was the fastening up beside the doorway of a frameless looking-glass for shaving purposes.

They required a place to sleep in, a place in which to store their produce, a place in which to break their fast and eat their meal at dusk. Here it lay, ready to their hand, affording them just these simple necessities, and so they adopted it.

But the new life troubled the Padre in moments when he allowed himself to dwell upon the younger man’s future. He had offered him his release, at the time he had parted with the farm, from a sense of simple duty. It would have been a sore blow to him had Buck accepted, yet he would have submitted readily, even gladly, for he felt that with the passing of the farm out of their hands he had far more certainly robbed Buck of all provision for his future than he had deprived himself, who was the actual owner. He felt that in seeking to help the little starving colony he had done it, in reality, at Buck’s expense.

Something of this was in his mind as he pushed away from their frugal breakfast-table. He stood in the doorway filling his pipe, while Buck cleared the tin plates and pannikins and plunged them into the boiler of hot water on the stove.

He leant his stalwart shoulders against the door casing, and stared out at the wooded valley which crossed the front of the house. Beyond it, over the opposite rise, he could see the dim outline of the crest of Devil’s Hill several miles away.

He felt that by rights Buck should be there – somewhere there beyond the valley. Not because the youngster had any desire for the wealth that was flowing into the greedy hands of the gold-seekers. It was simply the thought of a man who knows far more of the world than he cares to remember. He felt that in all honesty he should point out the duties of a man to himself in these days when advancement alone counts, and manhood, without worldly position, goes for so very little. He was not quite sure that Buck didn’t perfectly understand these things for himself. He had such a wonderful understanding and insight. However, his duty was plain, and it was not his way to shrink from it.

Buck was sprinkling the earth floor preparatory to sweeping it when the Padre let his eyes wander back into the room.

“Got things fixed?” he inquired casually.

“Mostly.” Buck began to sweep with that practiced hand which never raises a dust on an earthen floor.

The Padre watched his movements thoughtfully.

“Seems queer seeing you sweeping and doing chores like a – a hired girl.” He laughed presently.

Buck looked up and rested on his broom. He smilingly surveyed his early benefactor and friend.

“What’s worryin’?” he inquired in his direct fashion.

The Padre stirred uneasily. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and pressed the glowing tobacco down with the head of a rusty nail.

“Oh, nothing worrying,” he said, turning back to his survey of the valley beyond the decaying stockade. “The sun’ll be over the hilltops in half an hour,” he went on.

But the manner of his answer told Buck all he wanted to know. He too glanced out beyond the valley.

“Yes,” he ejaculated, and went on sweeping. A moment later he paused again. “Guess I can’t be out at the traps till noon. Mebbe you ken do without me – till then?”

“Sure.” The Padre nodded at the valley. Then he added: “I’ve been thinking.”

“’Bout that gold strike? ’Bout me? You bin thinkin’ I ought to quit the traps, an’ – make good wi’ them. I know.”

The elder man turned back sharply and looked into the dark eyes with a shrewd smile.

“You generally get what I’m thinking,” he said.

“Guess you’re not much of a riddle – to me,” Buck laughed, drawing the moist dust into a heap preparatory to picking it up.

The Padre laughed too.

“Maybe you know how I’m feeling about things, then? Y’ see there’s nothing for you now but half the farm money. That’s yours anyway. It isn’t a pile. Seems to me you ought to be – out there making a big position for yourself.” He nodded in the direction of Devil’s Hill.

“Out of gold?”

“Why not? It’s an opportunity.”

“What for?” Buck inquired, without a semblance of enthusiasm.

“Why, for going ahead – with other folks.”

Buck nodded.

“I know. Goin’ to a city with a big pile. A big house. Elegant clothes. Hired servants. Congress. Goin’ around with a splash of big type in the noospapers.”

“That’s not quite all, Buck.” The man at the door shook his head. “A man when he rises doesn’t need to go in for – well, for vulgar display. There are a heap of other things besides. What about the intellectual side of civilization? What about the advancement of good causes? What about – well, all those things we reckon worth while out here? Then, too, you’ll be marrying some day.”

Buck picked up the dust and carefully emptied it into the blazing stove. He watched it burn for a moment, and then replaced the round iron top.

“Marryin’ needs – all those things?” he inquired at last.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” returned the other quickly. He knew something was lying behind Buck’s quiet manner, and it made him a little uncomfortable. “Most men find a means of marrying when they want to – if they’re men. Look here,” he went on, with a sudden outburst of simple candor, “I want to be fair to you, and I want you to be fair to yourself. There’s an opportunity over there” – he pointed with his pipe in the direction of Devil’s Hill – “an opportunity to make a pile, which will help you to take a position in the world. I don’t want you to stay with me from any mistaken sense of gratitude or duty. It is my lot, and my desire, to remain in these hills. But you – you’ve got your life before you. You can rise to the top if you want to. I know you. I know your capacity. Take your share of the farm money, and – get busy.”

“An’ if I don’t want to – get busy?” Buck’s dark eyes were alight with a curious, intense warmth.

The Padre shrugged and pushed his pipe into the corner of his mouth.

“There’s nothing more to be said,” he replied.

“But ther’ is, Padre. There sure is,” cried Buck, stepping over to him and laying one hand on the great shoulder nearest him. “I get all you say. I’ve got it long ago. You bin worryin’ to say all this since ever you got back from sellin’ the farm. An’ it’s like you. But you an’ me don’t jest figger alike. You got twenty more years of the world than me, so your eyes look around you different. That’s natural. You’re guessin’ that hill is an opportunity for me. Wal, I’m guessin’ it ain’t. Mebbe it is for others, but not for me. I got my opportunity twenty years ago, an’ you give me that opportunity. I was starvin’ to death then, an’ you helped me out. You’re my opportunity, an’ it makes me glad to think of it. Wher’ you go I go, an’ when we both done, why, I guess it won’t be hard to see that what I done an’ what you done was meant for us both to do. We’re huntin’ pelts for a livin’ now, an’ when the time comes for us to quit it, why, we’ll both quit it together, an’ so it’ll go on. It don’t matter wher’ it takes us. Say,” he went on, turning away abruptly. “Guess I’ll jest haul the drinkin’ water before I get.”

The Padre turned his quiet eyes on the slim back.

“And what about when you think of marrying?” he asked shrewdly.

Buck paused to push the boiler off the stove. He shook his head and pointed at the sky.

“Guess the sun’s gettin’ up,” he said.

The Padre laughed and prepared to depart.

“Where you off to this morning?” he inquired presently.

“That gal ain’t got a hired man, yet,” Buck explained simply, as he picked up his saddle. Then he added ingenuously, “Y’ see I don’t guess she ken do the chores, an’ the old woman ain’t got time to – for talkin’.”

The Padre nodded while he bent over the breech of his Winchester. He had no wish for Buck to see the smile his words had conjured.

Buck swung his saddle on to his shoulder and passed out of the hut in the direction of the building he had converted into a barn. And when he had gone the Padre looked after him.

“He says she’s handsome, with red-gold hair and blue eyes,” he murmured. Then a far-away look stole into his steady eyes, and their stare fixed itself upon the doorway of the barn through which Buck had just vanished. “Curious,” he muttered. “They’ve nicknamed her ‘Golden,’ which happened to be a nickname – her father gave her.”

He stood for some moments lost in thought. Then, suddenly pulling himself together, he shouldered his rifle and disappeared into the woods.